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“We should get a pet,” Harry says, some years after the war. Or, more to the point, some years after Hedwig’s death. “It’s time, I think.”
“Yeah?” Sirius says, draping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “What are you thinking about?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admits.
It’s exciting, in a way. The thrum of anticipation, of not knowing which way things will go. It’s that carefree part of him that he’s taken care to cultivate after years under the Dursleys’ or Voldemort’s thumb, after so much time of fear and being denied. Easy, instinctual, a little wild—it’s the part of Harry that chose professional quidditch as a career once he graduated from Hogwarts and found himself at loose ends.
“Then it’ll be a surprise for both of us,” Sirius decides, sounding entirely pleased by the idea.
Harry kisses him with thanks, with love, with the absolute contentment of knowing he’s found someone who understands him.
They don’t start looking for a pet immediately. It’s not game season, but that only means that practices are long and hard, as there are no games ahead to keep from wearing out for. On days like these, Harry doesn’t know what he was thinking, willingly training under Oliver Wood in the professional sphere after knowing Oliver’s over the top enthusiasm during his school years. Sirius is busy, too, having been drawn into Narcissa’s fundraiser planning again. The first time it happened, Harry was secretly sure that the event would end in either murder or arson, given the two cousins’ different personalities. And then when it went off without a hitch, instead with Sirius’ brilliant smile as they achieved their donation goals, Harry could only be thrilled.
And so it takes a few weeks until Harry and Sirius find themselves at Diagon Alley’s Magical Menagerie, across the street from the ice cream parlor.
Harry takes a slow round of the shop, which takes the better part of an hour in the expanded space. There are the standard pets of owls and toads, marked with a Hogwarts-approved sign for hassled parents and excited children, and there are less common pets. Birds of all shapes and sizes, speckled snakes, ferrets, and even bats, though Harry only manages one glimpse of them in a darkened side room.
“No rats,” Sirius tells him as they pass an enclosure full of them.
“Agreed. No snakes, either. All they do is remind me of Nagini.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t want my pet and boyfriend to gossip about me without my understanding,” Sirius says, amused. “I don’t like ferrets. Toads are for kids. Owls…”
“Maybe,” Harry says. He twines his fingers with Sirius’. It’s inconvenient to live without an owl in the wizarding world, having to rely on his friends’ owls to stick around as he writes his reply, but he hasn’t wanted another owl since Hedwig. After a moment’s thought, Harry admits, “No. No owls.”
“No owls,” Sirius agrees. “How about a pelican?”
“Have you seen one around?” Harry cranes his head to look around.
“On the second floor,” Sirius says, and takes him there.
They don’t buy a pelican. In fact, they don’t buy any of the animals, perhaps too overwhelmed by their options to decide right then and there. It’s a tough choice, no matter how easy the overly attentive shopkeeper tries to make it. Harry has the feeling that next time they arrive, there will be a sign that says Harry Potter Shops Here!
That night, Harry curls up against Sirius in bed, and says, “We could get a crup puppy.”
“As long as you know that I’m the only dog allowed in our bed.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Narcissa,” Harry grumbles, grinning into Sirius’ shoulder. “How do you feel about her peacocks?”
“Too loud,” Sirius immediately says. “The magical breeds are invulnerable to silencing charms. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“No peacocks, then,” Harry agrees. He yawns.
Just as Harry is about to fall asleep, Sirius says, quietly, “I like Crookshanks. Kneazles are smart. Devious. They’ll bring you rats when you ask them to.”
“I like kneazles, too,” Harry murmurs, thinking of lazy afternoons in the Gryffindor common room when Crookshanks would drape himself over Harry.
In the morning, Harry floo calls Hermione for advice, and finds that kneazle-proofing the house is both a pain and necessary. She points out that Crookshanks gets everywhere anyway and causes trouble, even in his old age, but that they may as well try.
Harry raises the hems of the curtains before he’s even realized it, then laughs, and says, “We’re really doing this.”
“We are,” Sirius calls out from the next room over. “Great excuse to get rid of Cissa’s housewarming plant. I’ll say kneazles are allergic to it.”
“She’ll just get you something else,” Harry warns.
They bring home their kneazle that week, a young, cute, striped one that Harry has already fallen in love with. Seeing Sirius with their kneazle in his arms, whispering nonsense to her, Harry smiles, and is entirely content.